


Separation Anxiety

by StarshipDancer



Series: Soulmates are Wonderful [3]
Category: A Very Potter Musical Series - Team StarKid
Genre: Angst, Fluff, LITERALLY, M/M, Quirrellmort - Freeform, Quirrelmort, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Soulmates, voldemort loves the word fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7197983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarshipDancer/pseuds/StarshipDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new installment in my Soulmate AU! Voldemort and Quirrell have some serious talks, spend some unwanted time apart, and Voldemort blurts something he wishes he hadn't.... </p>
<p>It isn't necessary to read the rest of the series first, but you'll understand better what's going on if you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Separation Anxiety

                If somebody asked Voldemort how domestic life with his soulmate was going, he would have replied with a scathing remark and avoided the question. Honestly, he had no fucking idea how to be domestic. He’d spent the past few months just trying to figure out how much he could personalize their apartment to look like both of them lived there instead of just Quirrell.

                _Their apartment_. The idea still made Voldemort’s heart flutter wildly in something he could only describe as painful excitement. Quirrell had given him the key in December, and Voldemort felt the small lump of metal weighing in his pocket every day since then, a constant reminder that he didn’t have to wander aimlessly anymore. He had a home now.

                He’d never had a home before. Once he ran away from the orphanage, he either slept on the streets or with whichever Death Eater he’d been fucking at the time. Now that he actually had a place to call his own, Voldemort didn’t know what to do with himself.

                Quirrell, for the most part, had been patient with him. Seriously, that man had the patience of a fucking _saint_. Every time he suggested Voldemort bring some of his things to the apartment (a topic which merited a subject change on every occasion; he could only imagine how Quirrell would react hearing that he didn’t _have_ any possessions to bring), he always wore that calm smile and open expression in his gorgeous eyes that made Voldemort feel safe and terrified him at the same time. He’d only been so afraid once in his life, and that time had involved a building on fire with his soulmate inside. Not exactly what he should be feeling at the thought of a stable environment.

Whatever part of his brain screamed at the idea of security really needed to calm the fuck down.

                He was with Quirrell now. He was _safe_ and had a home with somebody who actually gave a shit about him and not just his dick or his evil plans. Now if only he could figure out how to handle that.

                “Your hair is really soft after you wash it,” Quirrell commented pleasantly. His book had been set aside the moment Voldemort exited the bathroom, and he’d opened his arms to accept his soulmate into a soothing embrace. Currently, he was running his fingers through Voldemort’s untidy, damp hair; flecks of water slid down the back of his neck from the comforting gesture, but he couldn’t care less. “When it’s not all sticky with hair gel and slicked back, your hair is _so_ _soft_. Not that I don’t like your hairdo, of course. It’s definitely you. But I like this, too.”

                “You’re the only person I’ve ever felt comfortable enough with to unwind like this, honestly. I never stuck with any of my Death Eaters long enough for them to touch me, let alone see me without my hair in place,” Voldemort admitted drowsily. Quirrell’s ministrations were putting him to sleep, but he _had to stay awake_. If he was a cat, he’d be purring so fucking loud, the whole neighborhood would’ve heard him.

                Quirrell made no reply. He just beamed, bent down, and pressed a firm kiss to Voldemort’s temple. Voldemort shut his eyes, a strong pang resounding in the beat his heart. He reached a hand up to hold Quirrell close to him, a vain attempt to keep him there. No matter how hard he held on, he’d have to let go in the morning. He turned his head to nuzzle Quirrell’s neck and hide the humiliating expression on his face.  

                “How long is your teacher’s conference gonna be?”

                “Just the weekend, I hope. I don’t even want to go; I’ll be spending too much time with coworkers I barely like and listening to speeches I’ve already heard. I don’t know why the school board thinks we need a refresher course every year.” Quirrell didn’t say it, but the truth bore down on both of them. This would be the longest time they’d be apart since their first breakup, and the library fire still flickered freshly in their minds.

                Voldemort sighed, lost in his thoughts as Quirrell sat back and began playing with his hair again. He wanted to ask Quirrell to just _stay home_ , but he didn’t want to sound selfish. His perfect squirrel had a life other than him that needed his attention, too, so he had to share. He just didn’t _want_ to. He wanted Quirrell all to himself all the time, if for no other reason than to keep the fear of abandonment at bay.

                His eyes flickered to the timer on his wrist, which still read _zero_. What would the old him say if he saw himself pining so co-dependently? He’d probably kick his own ass. Until he met Quirrell, he never imagined such a side of him existed. Now that it _did_ , he couldn’t fight the crippling fear that everything he had might vanish from between his fingertips.

                He felt a gentle tugging at his head. Voldemort suddenly became aware of Quirrell’s devoted focus to his hair. He tried to turn, but his soulmate moved with him to continue his project. He reached a hand back, which Quirrell playfully swatted away. “Dude, what are you doing?”

                “Sshh. Stop fussing. I’m just braiding your hair.”

                “Braiding my—all right, you! That’s it!” Voldemort turned in Quirrell’s arms so that he could launch a full-scale assault on Quirrell’s mouth. His squirrel hummed in surprised delight and responded positively. Ha! Quirrell never stood a chance.

                Not that he wanted to, of course. Two arms much stronger than they looked wrapped around Voldemort’s neck to pin him down. Voldemort shifted, his knee sliding in between Quirrell’s as he sucked on his bottom lip. Now that he knew the former-Dark Lord wasn’t going anywhere, Quirrell took to examining the bare flesh of Voldemort’s toned chest with his hands, and each calculated touch made Voldemort shiver. Voldemort would never figure out why, but Quirrell _loved_ memorizing his chest; by now, he must have known every angle more intimately than even Voldemort.

Those same, deft fingers trailed down to his waistband with purpose. Voldemort’s eyes snapped open. He tried to squirm away. _Too much_. “You should, uh… you should get some sleep. You need to leave early, don’t you?”

                Disappointment clouded Quirrell’s eyes, then shifted to uncertainty, and he huffed silently. Voldemort hated himself for the doubt and insecurity he saw filling his boyfriend’s features. Fucking hell! He tried to kiss him again, but Quirrell pulled his head back to avoid him.

                Great. Now Quirrell wanted to talk about it. Voldemort _definitely_ wasn’t ready to have this conversation.

                “I-is it because I’m a g-guy? Is that why you don’t want to have sex with me?”

                “What?” Well. Voldemort hadn’t been expecting _that_. Of all the ridiculous conclusions his soulmate could have jumped to, he went with _that one_? “Shit, Quirrell, what makes you think that?”

                “It’s the only e-explanation I can think o-of,” he confessed, and Voldemort peppered his face with kisses to make up for it. Shit. This was all his fault. He had to fix it before Quirrell left for the weekend; the last thing he needed to be thinking about at that stupid teacher’s conference was whether or not his soulmate would ever sleep with him.

                “No, that’s not it. You wouldn’t be the first guy I’ve had sex with, you know.” Voldemort sighed and sat back against his own pillow, struggling to find the words to explain his predicament. Now that he’d calmed down some, Quirrell reached over to take his hand and give it an encouraging squeeze. Damn him and his endless patience! Just then, however, Voldemort was more than thankful for the support, and he gripped Quirrell’s hand to ground himself.

                “I just don’t know if I’m ready to handle sex yet. All of this is still so new to me. A relationship. A home. Vulnerability. Trust.” He gestured vaguely with his free hand, his body twitching with anxiety. “I’m scared it’ll all end if we move too fast. Sorry for making you wait, I just… can we hold off a little bit longer?”

                Quirrell was quiet for a moment, his thumb absently drawing circles on the back of Voldemort’s hand. His eyes shone with understanding and—what Voldemort really needed to see—acceptance. Slowly, Voldemort began to relax. He’d forgotten the calming effect Quirrell had on him. Finally, his soulmate leaned forward to kiss him so tenderly, he thought he might shatter. He was quivering again, but not with fear or insecurity.

                “Of course we can wait!” Quirrell promised between sweet pecks to his lips, nose, and cheeks. “We can wait as long as you need. I want you to be ready.”

Voldemort breathed a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “How did I get so lucky to have you?”

“We’re soulmates, Voldemort. I love you.” He kissed him one last time before he reached over to turn out the light and settle down against Voldemort’s side. The two of the alternated at night between cuddling and sleeping back to back (which, for some reason, was unnaturally comfortable). “Besides, it’s not like we don’t have the rest of our lives, right?”

                Voldemort stared at Quirrell’s loving expression, and words bubbled to his lips. _Marry me_. He swallowed the idea before it could leap from his tongue. The question had been on his mind since Christmas, but he’d chickened out then, too. They’d barely been together half a year. Voldemort didn’t even want to have _sex_ yet, and sex was his specialty! A marriage proposal was _totally_ of the table right now.

                So why did it keep returning to the forefront of his mind so often…?

                When Voldemort awoke the next morning, Quirrell was already gone. He’d left a note beside the coffeepot, one of his favorite books performing as a paperweight. While he waited for his coffee, Voldemort read over Quirrell’s letter until he knew the words by heart.

_Sorry I left without saying goodbye! You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you. Your coffee is ready; you only have to press the button. I’m carpooling with some of my coworkers, so I’ll call you as soon as we reach the hotel._

_I love you. Quirrell._

Voldemort glanced at the clock. Quirrell wouldn’t be arriving at his hotel for another few hours. What the hell was he supposed to do for that long? He glanced considerately at the book in his hand. _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen. Quirrell always swore by the woman, but Voldemort had never read anything by her before.

                Eh, well. No time like the present. Coffee in hand, he plopped down on Quirrell’s side of the couch, trying not to think of the perfect indentation in the cushion from where his boyfriend had tucked his legs, and opened the book.

                “ _It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”_ Voldemort’s expression fell.

                This was going to be a long morning.

                Morning turned into afternoon. By now, he’d given up on Jane Austen and was just starting _High School Musical 3_. Definitely not as good as the first two, but he’d never complain about Zefron dancing in the rain. If Quirrell were there, he would have teased Voldemort about that scene, just like he did every time they watched the film series.

                _Quirrell_. Voldemort cast a nervous glance at the clock. He should have called by now. _Okay, stay calm. He probably just got distracted by one of his coworkers. Nothing to be freaking out about_ , he tried to rationalize with himself, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

                No, not a feeling. His heart kept pounding erratically, and he felt sick as hell. He _knew._ Something was _definitely_ wrong.

                Unable to stand the feeling of dread any longer, he reached for his cell phone to call Quirrell. Before he could, the phone started ringing, and Quirrell’s smiling face appeared on the screen. Voldemort answered immediately, his thumb quivering as he swiped to answer the call. “Quirrell? Is everything all right?”

                “V-V-Voldemort?” came the shaken reply. Voldemort instantly relaxed. He sounded upset, but at least Quirrell was _okay_.

“Yeah, it’s me, calm down. What happened?”

                “W-we got held up in t-t-traffic. A wr-wreck. Th-the whole car was on f-fire!”

                Suddenly, Voldemort understood. He tried to shove away the memories of looking for his soulmate in a burning library, but the images popped up regardless. The blistering heat. The smoke polluting his lungs. The panic that he might not find Quirrell. The terror that Quirrell might not be alive even if he _did_ find him.

                His fingers curled around the arm of the couch as he took an unsteady breath. No drowning in memories. Quirrell needed him. “Listen to me, Squirrel. You’re okay.”

                “B-but those people, Voldemort! Th-they were still in there—and the f-fire was so big—and I could _smell_ it, Voldemort. Smell them b-burning!”

                “Quirrell—”

                “That-that could have been us! That could have been _you_! Trapped and b-burning alive, and the firemen would have b-been too l-late—”

                “Quirrell, _man_ , listen!” He waited until all he heard was Quirrell sniffling on the other end of the line. What he wouldn’t give to be holding him just then. “It wasn’t us. We’re both fine. Take a deep breath for me. I need you to calm down and breathe for me.”

                He heard Quirrell exhale deeply, shuddering. He whispered encouragements into the phone, fighting the urge to just go to his boyfriend. He didn’t know where the fuck Quirrell was exactly or how he planned on getting there, but he would walk for days if he thought his soulmate needed him.

                After a long silence, Quirrell said, “ _I want to come home_. I need to see you.”

“Hey, no, you’re already there. It’s just a couple of days. You’re _strong_. I know you can do this.” Voldemort finally settled back into the couch, though the urge to get up and move didn’t leave his veins. He needed to _do something_ , whatever the fuck it might be.

                “B-but—”

                “Nope, no buts, Squirrel. You’re gonna stay there, suffer through this stupid conference, and the moment you walk through that door, I’ll snog you so hard, you’ll forget your own name. You come home now, and no snogging. Do we have a deal?”

Quirrell sniffled again. “W-well, that’s something to l-look forward to. I g-guess I can stay.”

                “That’s my man. Now, we need to talk about your taste in books….”

                Once he had Quirrell laughing over his disgust at the Jane Austen novel, Voldemort bid his soulmate good night and got off the phone. He still felt like he needed to jog a mile or something. He tidied up the living room, straightening books and cleaning up small bits of dirt from Quirrell’s plants.

                He straightened the stack of DVDs. Gathered Quirrell’s randomly discarded clothes along the back of the couch. Glanced at the clock. _Ten pm_.

He removed all the papers from the coffee table so he could dust the surface. Reorganized everything for easier access. Stacked it into a neat pile. _Three am_.

                This was going to be the longest weekend of his life.

By the time Quirrell returned from his conference, Voldemort had cleaned the entire apartment spotless. Even the spotless spots were spotless. Quirrell gazed around in amazement, his mouth gaping in awe at all the work that had been done. He’d barely set down his bags and kicked off his shoes when Voldemort was upon him, drawing him close by his waist to kiss him.

                “I take it you missed me as much as I missed you?” he asked breathlessly. His back hit the door behind him as Voldemort pressed against him again.

                “You have _no fucking_ idea. I might have slept with your robe while you were gone.” He kissed every inch of his soulmate he could reach before he realized that Quirrell’s shirt collar was in his way. That just wouldn’t do. He returned to that delicious mouth, his tongue dipping in for a taste of heaven as his hands began to make quick work of Quirrell’s jacket and started to unbutton his shirt.

                “I’m not complaining,” Quirrell began, blood already rushing through his veins toward his groin, “but didn’t we agree we would wait?”

                Voldemort groaned. He loved Quirrell, he really _did_ , but why did the man always feel like they needed to have discussions at the most inopportune times? He sucked a spot on Quirrell’s neck until the milky skin bruised under his dedication. Before the squirrel could say anything else, he picked him up to relocate the two to a more comfortable location. Namely, the couch.

                “Voldemort, no, the bedroom is _right down the hall_ , and—”

                “I’ve wanted to hold you since the day you called. I don’t think I can wait any more. Not now.” He pressed his mouth to Quirrell’s again to silence any reply his squirrel might have produced, and Quirrell appeared satisfied with that response. He finished unbuttoning the inconvenient shirt and decided that Quirrell’s pants were definitely in the way, too. He reached for the button desperately, needing to touch any and every inch of his soulmate that he could find.

                “Too many clothes,” he growled and pulled his own shirt over his head. Quirrell hummed in appreciation.

“Oh, I definitely missed this,” he purred and began to familiarize himself with Voldemort’s abs once more. A surprised groan left his lips as Voldemort slipped a hand into his pants. Long, expert fingers wrapped around Quirrell’s length and began to pump him at a slow, torturous pace.

                “Is my glorious chest all you missed?” he teased mercilessly.

                “V-Voldemort, please—”

                “That’s not an answer to my question. Come on, Quirrell, you’re a teacher. Use that big vocabulary of yours.”

                Quirrell gasped as Voldemort’s thumb slid over his slit, and his hips gave an involuntary jerk. “You’re such an asshole.”

                “So I've been told,” Voldemort agreed, grinning, and relieved Quirrell of the rest of his clothing.

 Fuck.  _Fuck._  He froze, eyes roaming from the tip of Quirrell’s head down to his toes, taking in all of his naked glory. He’d never seen something so amazing, so perfect, so beautiful in his whole life. He couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t stop taking in his soulmate’s flawless body. He might have to share Quirrell’s time with his work, but this? This was all _his_.

                Quirrell began to squirm under Voldemort’s intense scrutiny. He tried to cover himself, blushing, but Voldemort caught his wrists and pinned them at the sides of his head. Brown eyes peered up at him, questioning, worrying, and he mumbled Voldemort’s name.

                That was enough to catch his attention. Before his brain could catch up with his mouth, he blurted, “Marry me?”

                The shock on Quirrell’s face must have mirrored his own. Shit! He hadn’t meant to say that! They both stilled, staring at each other. Quirrell’s mouth opened and shut a few times, his brow scrunched adorably in surprise and confusion.

                “ _What did you just ask me_?”

**Author's Note:**

> ... to be continued!


End file.
